It was hard to live with Sherlock but it's harder to live without him
by PotterWhoLocked221b
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. This is a bit angsty but hopefully there's enough light-hearted moments to break things up and keep you sane! :) First ever fic, so any constructive criticism or general feedback will be greatly appreciated. Pleeeeeeeease read and review. Thankyou x


_Two weeks after the fall._

John stood by the window wearing an empty, broken expression as he tunelessly plucked the strings of Sherlock's violin. He inwardly cursed the world with its taxis and its rain and all the stupid people, who had the audacity to function as though nothing had changed. When of course, everything had. Not just changed, though; John Watson's life had stopped altogether, had crumbled and shattered when his best friend decided to step into thin air. He stood that way for a long time, letting the tears run down his cheeks, until Mrs Hudson tapped gently on the door.

"John, dear, I'm so sorry but it's just that Lestrade is outside… he wants to see you." She spoke the words softly, aware of his fragility. "I'll leave you boys alone." Behind her Lestrade walked in, palms held upwards in a surrendering stance.

"John, look, I just want to-"

John's fist made its impact with Lestrade's jaw, effectively silencing him. Greg reeled a little but did not look at all surprised. "I deserved that, I know," he whispered hoarsely, meeting John's eyes sheepishly. The two men stared at each other, one seething and the other solemn.

Though they had been in the same room as each other since the fall and had even both carried Sherlock's coffin from the church, this was the first occasion in which they had spoken, owing to John's steadfast determination to ignore Lestrade. John wasn't quite sure how it happened but the next minute Lestrade had enveloped John into a slightly uncomfortable hug, and John was engulfed by sobs which wracked his body.

They talked for a long time. John forgave Lestrade easily; it wasn't him he was angry with, not really. It was nice to have someone to talk to who knew Sherlock and how impossible he was to live with, let alone without.

Before he left, Greg clasped John's shoulder and looked him levelly in the eye. "Let me know if you need anything, mate. Anything at all. Just… don't shut yourself away. He'd want you to move on y'know." It had infuriated John a little because he was wrong. Sherlock would most definitely not want him to move on – he had hated John interacting with people, he was possessive and others had bored him endlessly. Sherlock had despised it when John had gone to the surgery instead of being at his constant beck and call and had chased away any woman who had the cheek to date him. But John recognized the sentiment and attempted a smile of thanks. He let Lestrade out and turned around to survey the empty room, whose silence screamed at him. Where was the sound of gunshots? Where was the incessant whine of the violin? And _where _was that baritone voice snapping at John to bring him a pen, or else mocking his 'funny little brain'?

_Three weeks after the fall._

John logged onto his laptop and brought up his blog. Seeing all his old posts of the cases brought a lump to his throat, but he didn't read them. He was sick of crying. He simply clicked 'write new entry' and quickly typed: _He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him. _He disabled the comments so nobody could say he was a fraud and logged off again.

_Four weeks after the fall._

It was a Bad Day today. John had found that suddenly life was split up into Bad Days and Better Days. On Better Days, he might sit in the flat and not feel too devastated. He actually relished being able to put Doctor Who on in peace, and being able to get more than three minutes into a murder mystery without being unceremoniously informed who the killer is. On Better Days, he might have a stroll in the park. He might sit with Mrs Hudson for a bit. He might even meet up with Molly – but not at Bart's; he would not go to that place. It was nice to see different faces after all. But Better Days were never good days. He constantly missed Sherlock. There was just a gaping void in his life now, and no one but a scarf-clad, cheekboned man could fill it. He couldn't even flag a taxi without thinking of Sherlock's magnetic figure which seemed to draw every black cab in London towards him. But today was a very Bad Day. Sherlock's headstone was finally finished and had been put in place at his grave. John was going to visit it.

He walked slowly towards the glossy black marble, trying to control himself. He had vowed to himself that he would tell Sherlock the truth, the truth that he so deserved to hear. He took a deep breath and began to murmur.

"You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there." His voice was wobbling dangerously now under the effort of not crying. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

He desperately wished Sherlock could hear him. Because it was true; John owed everything to Sherlock and he had never even got the chance to tell him. He couldn't stand it anymore, the tears were inevitable. He pulled his hand away from the cold marble, because if he didn't now then he never would. John walked away with a shattered heart. He just let the tears come.

_Five weeks after the fall._

"Dear I wish you would cheer up a little." Mrs Hudson was watching him sadly from the doorway; her voice made him jump. "You need to get out this flat. Find yourself some nice company."

John looked at her and felt a rush of gratitude for his housekeeper. He jumped up from his chair and took her hand. "Come on then, Mrs Hudson. I've got my nice company, now let's go. I'm taking you out."

"Oh, but my hair-"

* * *

John held the door open to Angelo's restaurant and led the delighted Mrs Hudson inside. He was greeted by a large booming voice; "John! John my man, it's good to see you! Any table you want, you get the pick!"

John grinned. "You too mate, anywhere'll do, yeah just here, thanks Angelo."

They sat down and John promised to treat Mrs Hudson to anything she wanted, at which she promptly ordered a bottle of red wine.

"Mrs Hudson… can I ask you something?"

"Yes love?"

"What _is _your first name?"

She burst into peals of laughter, expecting something much more serious. "Oh no, I could never tell you that. Never told anyone."

"Not even Sherlock?"

"Oh well, he deduced it. He would, wouldn't he? No respect than one, no concept of privacy!" She said it jovially so that any insult was weightless.

"But seriously, will you tell me?"

"Guess."

John laughed and sat back in thought. He cast about for particularly hideous names that soon had them both howling with laughter. "Helga? Grizelda? Ethel? Or is it something embarrassingly cheesy like Destiny?" Quite possibly the red wine had taken its toll, but Mrs Hudson and John were absolutely hysterical with laughter. After six minutes of uninterrupted giggles, they finally caught their breath and calmed down. "Go on, Mrs Hudson. I won't tell anyone."

She leant back in her chair and looked around them gravely. "Alright," she whispered. "It's Peggy."

"Peggy?"

"Yes. Don't tell a soul."

"Peggy? All that for _Peggy?" _John guffawed. "Well what the hell's so bad about Peggy?"

"Oh I don't know, dear – nothing really I suppose; it's a little old fashioned, but then again so am I. I just prefer Mrs Hudson, it's what everyone knows me as."

"Jesus - that's a bit of an anti-climax to say the least! Well, you'll always be Mrs Grizelda Hudson to me."

* * *

The subject had, inevitably, turned to Sherlock. They were both still quite giddy though, and consequently ensued in terrible impressions of their brilliant friend. After a rendition of the old classic 'I-don't-know-my-basic-facts-of-the-Solar-System', John steepled his fingers under his chin and repeatedly announced everything to be 'dull' in a hyperbolically deep voice. Mrs Hudson wiped a tear of laughter from her eye.

"Oh that man. That wicked, wicked man. Fancy putting eyeballs and toenails in the fridge next to the food."

"Absolute nutter."

"Ooh the carryings on, it drove me _mad _John, and all that bickering with him and Mycroft… Thank god for when you turned up, dear."

John was silent for a bit before murmuring, "he was extraordinary. Wonderful. Brilliant. A genius. An idiot. Insufferable. Amazing."

"I know dear, I know."

_Six weeks after the fall._

His therapist kept nagging him to keep writing his blog. John couldn't see the point. Nonetheless he logged on. Clicked the 'write new entry' button. Typed the words _Nothing happens to me._

He stared at the words for a long time. He sighed and backspaced until the page was completely blank. He wryly thought it was a more apt representation of his life: Blank, empty, bare.

Meaningless.

_Six weeks after the fall._

It was just past three o'clock in the morning and Molly hurried down a dark alleyway, peering at her phone to check she had the correct street name. She cast furtive glances about her, half expecting to be mugged at any moment, but she was alone. She waited.

"Molly."

Molly started at the sudden loss of silence and looked around to find the source of that deep silky voice. Theatrical as always, Sherlock stepped out of the shadows.

"Sherlock! Oh you gave me a fright!" She laughed her girlish laugh but fell silent under Sherlock's piercing stare.

"Let's skip the pleasantries Molly, you wanted to meet me for a reason. I will not stay here long but I felt that under the circumstances you have helped me considerably and I should at least hear what you have to say. Well?"

"Y-yes, well I just thought you should know that John really isn't coping, he-"

"I am well aware of John's situation thank you. Mycroft is keeping tabs on him for me and _he _will let me know any pertinent information."

"No! Sherlock, I can't keep lying to him – he's just a shell of himself, he really is. You have to tell him the truth!"

The words came as blows to Sherlock but he made his face remain impassive. "I have a plan Molly and I intend to see it through."

"I'm really worried about him Sherlock, if you just saw him you'd realize. And he thinks I understand! I have to pretend to grieve with him and act like I understand and I can't do it anymore, I can't! Just tell him you're alive!" Her voice rang out shrilly and met his eyes with a basilisk glare, though tears began forming in her eyes.

"Really, Molly, stop crying. It's incredibly tedious." Sherlock hated to be so callous but it was the only way to maintain his resolve and stop himself from running right that minute straight to 221B. "This was a waste of time. John can't know."

_Seven weeks after the fall._

John was jerked awake by the noise of his phone ringing. He must have fallen asleep at the kitchen table; his nightmares were bad lately and he wasn't getting a great amount of sleep. He fumbled about for his phone and saw that it was Lestrade ringing.

"Hello?" he yawned.

"John, hi. Bit of a funny one down at the yard. A woman was found dead in her flat –she was poisoned. There are two small puncture marks on her leg which would indicate a snake bite, but it doesn't make any sense… no zoos have reported any escaped snakes and there's just no way a snake would be able to get to the fifth floor of a building and leave it again with no witnesses… fancy taking a look in for us?"

"Me? What for?"

Greg sighed down the phone. "You're the next best thing, mate."

He wished he hadn't agreed. He felt hideously exposed without the tall imperious figure next to him. John knew he was attracting all sorts of pitying looks from the rest of the Yard gang as he was guided through the crime scene of a small but well-kept flat. He couldn't do this, didn't want to. This might be the hardest thing he's done since the funeral. He stood absolutely alone as Greg filled him in on what he was about to see. He tried to focus on what he was saying.

"…neighbour keeps a pet snake but he has a rock solid alibi. We had some experts in to examine its enclosure and they say it couldn't have got out. So it could be someone trying to frame him but we still don't have a clue how the poison…" Lestrade tailed off when he realized John had stopped dead behind him.

"John, you alright?"

John was stood with tightly fisted hands which were trembling at his sides, the muscle in his jaw jumping furiously. He glared at Donavan, who had just entered the room. The woman who had called Sherlock 'freak'. Over and over again. Freak. The person who had spread doubt as far as she could and turned everyone against Sherlock. When she saw John she blanched a little, but did not approach him. Wise of her.

He tried to calm down; he didn't want a repeat of what happened last time they met. He had completely broken down, sobbing as he screamed at her. He'd spat every insult he knew with all the venom he could muster, letting her know just how much he blamed and hated her. He vaguely remembered shouting something to do with Anderson at her, and was fairly sure he had outed them in front of everyone.

John knelt beside the body and tried to observe, not just see. He could practically feel himself missing the vital clues and he had absolutely no idea where to start. Sherlock would know in a single second what had happened. The woman was middle-aged and her hair was entangled and wavy, like it had dried without her having a chance to brush it. She smelt faintly of lavender and had bleached teeth. Although John knew from Lestrade that the woman had worked for the QVC channel, he flattered himself with the notion that he would have been able to deduce that she worked somewhere which highly valued appearances. He looked hopelessly at her pyjamas. Were they significant in some way? It had been past eight o'clock at night when she'd been found; it wasn't an unreasonable attire. She might've wanted an early night. Oh god. John stood up and strode over to the kitchen, trying to look as though he knew what he was doing. But in reality he wanted to cry. He felt empty. Here, at a crime scene, was where Sherlock was most alive, most passionate. John would kill to see his best friend whirling about the place again, muttering condescending remarks to everyone in the room.

The report said that it seems she had got home from work at around half past six, had watched some television, had a bath, got dressed and read some of her book. And somewhere along the way, had also died. He went into her bathroom, and surveyed her cabinet; the woman had boasted an impressive array of bath products. Various lotions and potions with all sorts of pretentious names littered every surface. Rosemary and honeysuckle bath bombs. Lavender aromatherapy shower gel. Molton Brown Bushukan body wash. John sifted through a few, trying to detect if there were any signs of a male presence and therefore whether she had had a boyfriend. No luck. What was he doing here? If Sherlock could see him he would be laughing at him. John could almost hear his satin voice firing insults at him. "_Moron_" He'd say. "_Idio_t". Or perhaps something more extensive like "_John your tiny brain amuses me so, what is it like being so blissfully unaware? So blind to the obvious? I envy your vacant little intellect." _ John wished desperately that he could hear those words for real. He sighed.

"Look I'm sorry Greg, I'm not him, I just don't know. I can't help you, I just-" John took a deep breath. "I just can't. I'm sorry."

* * *

John had a terrible night's sleep that night. It wasn't unusual. His nightmares again. He often dreamt of a man with a porcelain face who falls from a building and smashes into dust on the pavement. It didn't take a genius to figure out what it meant. His alarm wailed unforgivingly the next morning and he stumbled somewhat blindly to the kitchen. He set about making himself his morning jam-on-toast and a brew. He'd just taken a sip from his tea when his eyes flew open wide. He grabbed for his mobile and speed dialled Lestrade.

"Yeah, hi, it's me. I think I've thought of something. Listen it's just a hunch and it may be completely wrong but I reckon you should get someone to check out the woman's bath products – the lavender one. I remember thinking she smelt of lavender, and she had had a bath that evening, right? Yeah. So what if, I dunno, there was something dodgy in that? Might be nothing but… yeah. Great, thanks."

It was hours later when John finally received a text:

_John, you were right there was a slow acting poison found in the liquid – Dimethylmercury. Will keep you posted if we find how it got to be in the bath product. Thanks for your help, this gives us a definite lead. Sherlock's man through and through, eh? Greg._

John beamed at the phone in his hand, really chuffed with himself. Alright, Sherlock would have made that connection a hell of a lot faster than he had, and he would have figured out how it got into the bath product and who planted it there as well. But considering that John wasn't a consulting detective, he thought he'd done pretty damn well.


End file.
